My Father-A Study In Human Compassion

     I wanted to write a blog post about my father for Father's Day, but struggled with putting down all the things I wanted to say in the right way. I feel, personally, that even as an adult, a child should still respect their parent, and yet, to be honest, my relationship with my father has never been a typical one.
     I am not, in fact, a "Daddy's Girl", because my father was never a man who gave out hugs or compliments freely. He was not soft, tender, or sentimental, most of the time. He was, instead, a rock, an oak tree, a darkened cave whose emotions were better left unexplored.
     But that didn't stop me from hero worshipping him. Or from doing whatever I could to get his love and attention. Even now at 30 years old, I still long to impress my father, for him to be proud of me and the choices I've made and the life I live, and for who I am.
     It's like a long held dream that I know has a 1% or less probability of coming true. There is no affirmation, only " Haven't you learned that yet?" And "Where's your common sense?"
     Which is strange that those words are still so intimidating coming from a man who never learned to read. That alone was one of the reasons I made honor roll in school. It made me proud and happy to read the newspaper out loud to him, especially the comics, and sometimes he would even brag on what good handwriting I had when he would ask me to address the envelops, or fill out a check he needed, to pay bills.
     I always felt like my Daddy could do anything. He was strong and stubborn, and knew how to work hard. He would work out in the log woods, carrying his chainsaw, until his shirt was soaked with sweat, stopping only to eat his usual lunch, Vienna Sausages and a honeybun. To this day, when I see those foods sitting on a grocery store shelf I smile and think of him.
      I think of him when I see someone chopping wood or I smell that woodsy smoky smell coming from someone's chimney in the dead of winter. I think of him when I see a pair of lace up work books on some stranger's feet. He used to pay me a quarter to unlace his boots and take them off his feet after a long day at work.
      He hunted, and fished, and loved to be outdoors. He knew how to do the best hoot owl imitation I've ever head. It was impressive to hear them answer back to him while out camping in the woods. He loved his garden, and still does. Just last summer I helped him can several batches of homemade salsa. All the while doing each step the way he deemed they had to be done.

      All it takes for thoughts of my father to come to mind is waking up on an early fall morning and feeling the crispness in the air, and I know it. I smell and feel buck fever, and I myself don't even hunt. But my Daddy's hunting always kept food on our kitchen table.
      The other thing that never fails to bring my father to mind is the smell and taste of hot coffee. It was often my job to brew him a cup, and fix it up the way he liked it. Even though, later that day, he would find his way down to a little convenience store/gas station/bait shop just miles from our dirt road where he liked to sit and pass the time drinking coffee, and yakin' with a bunch of other "old cronies".
       So many years have passed the little store is closed and there's only a couple of the old men left, one of them being my Dad. And so that is how I learned something new about my father. He does have a heart, something in my growing up years I often convinced myself he must not really have.
       Every time I go to visit my parents, or talk to Mom on the phone, (yes, I avoid talking to Dad since it seems we only have grunts and nods on his end and sometimes mine too since I take after him more than I probably should have) all I hear about Dad is, " Tomorrow I have to go sit with Floyd"(his long time coffee drinking buddy who recently lost his wife and is in bad health himself), or "Oh, tomorrow I have to go with Floyd to the hospital." Or "Floyd needs me to drive him into town." Or "Last week when I took Floyd to lunch..."
      And so I do not know if I will ever make my father proud of me, but I know he has made me proud of him. His love and friendship and compassion for his longtime friend has shown me something I needed to see with my own eyes. We are never too old to learn new tricks. There is always more to a person than meets the eye, and it is easier to view a parent favorably after becoming a parent yourself.
      Some things about my father will always be a mystery. But I can't help loving the man who raised me, and I try to remember only the good times, only the best times. Like him driving me home from school in companionable silence, listening to "The Rest of the Story" with Paul Harvey, or sitting out on our covered back porch that he built himself 20 years ago, listening to, and watching the rain fall.
     If nothing else, my father taught me to be silent. To absorb your surroundings. To sit and think. To drink coffee and enjoy a good newspaper article. And to have compassion on a dear friend. All qualities I think I'll keep!
     And every now and then I actually hear him say "I love you too." When I'm leaving and won't see him for a while. There's still not very many hugs, or heart to heart talks, but there is usually a smile, and a wave, and the memory of a card or dice game. I think I'll keep that too.